Coming Home
by 10111993
Summary: Sherlock is finally returning to 221 B on Baker Street, but things are not how he expected; his house-keeper is hiding something, and his flatmate is gone.
1. Chapter 1

221 B sat quietly in the oncoming darkness, all shadow and no movement. In the tranquil blue castings of the setting sun, a tall man strode the streets of London, heading for Baker Street. His nose was flaring, not out of any noxious odor but with a disgust oriented towards the people of London, who were now exchanging pleasantries and laughing uproariously in drunken pairs as they milled past like ants.

_Utterly stupid, pleasantries. Completely useless, and what need was there for something that was useless and inefficient? _He condescended a sideways glance, observing a man hurrying past with a small package clutched in a pudgy hand. _All their rituals; for comfort, I suppose,_ he mused, letting the man's obvious affair slip to the back of his mind. The tan line around his finger was visible beside the ring, indicating it had been put on in haste; an absence of swelling or rash on the nearby skin indicated no reasons for discomfort, and the package, which kept slipping from his fingers, was recovered with a clumsiness that was not entirely due to anxiety. The affair of his clothes indicated there was no attached fear of discovery - the man must normally be a sloppy dresser, and so the professionally wrapped package was clearly bought and wrapped at a store to resolve his own feelings. His open fly and the faint smell of wafting perfume were the final incriminating factors. The book was as much a present to himself as it was to his wife. Selfish is what John might have called it, though Sherlock wasn't acquainted with the concept, something which his flat mate frequently stressed. Sherlock was a bit surprised the populous of London managed to organize themselves at all, what with all their tedious emotions. They led to all sorts of inconveniences that were much better having not arisen at all. John, at least, kept his limited to dry wit and perfunctory gestures.

Sherlock was well aware he was acting a hypocrite as he approached the familiar flat; the noticeable lift in his mood was not something he cared to dwell on, nor was it of immediate importance. What was important was how the doctor was going to react to his two year sojourn from the land of the living. And Sherlock, instinctively rubbing a hand over his jaw with a vague hint of trepidation, knew with certainty exactly how that was going to go down. More than likely, it would end with him going down. Then, feelings vented, John would more than likely forgive him, although Sherlock was not completely confidant about the last part.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door on the first knock. "Sherlock! Oh, it's been so long! Come in you terrible man! Where have you been?" Sherlock, for once, was speechless. She had been to the funeral, surely? Perhaps she was suffering from a mild amnesia? He made as to ask about her health, but was deterred as she pulled him into her apartment by his elbow. Ducking his head a little under the door, Sherlock submitted himself to a cup of tea and slice of cherry pie. Then he suffered her doting attentions - why _did_ women fuss about his curls so? Really, it was insufferable - for a half an hour before finally chancing to interrupt the slightly hysterical woman. "-Mrs. Hudson," he interrupted, baritone voice carefully level and toned with concern, "-has my brother contacted you at all?" For her part, Mrs. Hudson looked perfectly the innocent old lady, wide eyes blinking in mild surprise. "No, no! I haven't heard from him at all since you were gone. How is the poor dear, anyway?" Sherlock suppressed a snort of amusement, _poor dear_ his arse, John would say (he had to, admittedly, give the man's intellect more credit sometimes). The man _was_ the British government.

Mrs. Hudson continued undeterred. "Really, Sherlock, was that fake death of yours really necessary? Look at what you put John through, the poor man! He's been drinking and working overtime. And now he's gone off to God knows where - mark my words Sherlock, you're going to get what's coming for you one of these days." Mrs. Hudson rambled on again, but Sherlock had already gleaned the two things he needed to know:

1. Mrs. Hudson had known his death was fake; he didn't know how much she knew, or how she knew it at all. How she had come to this knowledge was important, as was the question of whether she had told anyone.

2. John was gone, possibly on a trip of some sort, perhaps absent for some other reason. But he was not at 221 Baker Street, apartment A or B, had not been for a longish period of time, and that was unusual in itself.

Oh yes, and a third fact:

3. John was going to be soo pissed.

His first priority: "Mrs. Hudson, how did you know I was not dead?" The landlady and part time house-keeper paused in mid sentence with a raised finger. "Oh, well, that was easy, dearie. You, commit suicide? You have about the emotional range of a cantaloupe." Sherlock stared at her in astonishment, and sat silently in his chair. "Don't look at me like that - you know it's perfectly true. Anyway, poor Dr. Watson saw your 'death' first hand, so I suppose he had a bit more of a shock than I did. I did my best, but there's only so much you can do about those sort of things, you know." The feeling of guilt curdled uncomfortably at the bottom of the detective's stomach and he did his best to look appropriately chastised, but he'd always had trouble controlling his facial muscles and right then was one of those times. "Really, Sherlock, smiling at a time like this? Oh, and before you ask, I didn't tell anyone about your little act -" _You didn't have to_, Sherlock thought, glancing at her expressive face. "-and nobody told me about it." "Mrs. Hudson….where did John go?" It was the first time in the forty five minutes that the little kitchen fell silent. Sherlock watched as an upset expression crossed her face, mixed with fear. "Mrs. Hudson?" he enquired, after his question had gone unanswered for a minute. The beginnings of frustration were tightening his vocal cords, and he struggled to restrict it. When Mrs. Hudson finally spoke again, her voice was just above a whisper, unsteady and filled with tears. "Forgive me, Sherlock," she wept, "I don't know where he's gone."


	2. Chapter 2

The detective strode out of the apartment, fuming silently behind his cocked collar but doing nothing to hide it. His lips were twisted in an unpleasant sneer and his eyes were a stormy blue, sluicing through the crowds occupying their view. He'd done a cursory sweep of the apartment after leaving Mrs. Hudson's flat, idly noting the recycling bin overflowing with empty bottles of liqour and lips twitching at the sides slightly - for god's sake, he wasn't _smiling_ - because it appeared his roommate was still as meticulous as ever. That however, was as far as he got, and this was the source of his current frustration. _Obviously_, the man had gone somewhere, but he hadn't rearranged a bloody thing in his apartment. He was chaffing like a racehorse at the bit, impatient to exert his intellect, and it put him out more than a little that he couldn't just go back to 221 B as in years past and find his friend waiting patiently on the settee, being as exasperatingly boring as always. Well, alright, maybe he wasn't that boring. Sherlock had yet to solve the walking enigma that was John Watson. On exceedingly bad days, which meant only fifteen offers from the desperate head of London's police department - couldn't the man solve his own bloody cases? - Sherlock resorted to computing and analyzing John's movements, attempting to decipher the ex-army doctor's persona . When he wasn't also contemplating Lestrade's demise, of course.

The skull had been on the mantle where it had always bin. His violin, covered in a distasteful quantity of dust, was perched diagonal from it on the window sill, drawing the detective's gaze as he struggled to unearth a pattern beneath the presentation of normality laced with grief. Even if John was only gone on a short trip, he would have left some sign surely. But the kettle's handle leaned slightly to the right, the cans of food in the refrigerator stood in their assigned locations, and the covers of John's bed were lined up precisely with the pillows. Even as its objects implicated movement, the room felt deathly still, heavy curtains cutting off the bleak afternoon light and leaving the flat in dead silence.

Dammit, nothing was logical - where the devil had his flatmate gotten off to?

_If you've eliminated all other possibilities, what's left with must be true. _If Sherlock had a mantra, which he didn't because they were stupid and indicative of inculcated feelings, it might have been his. It was an inherent process of his deduction however, and what he had deduced was this: John had gotten himself kidnapped, yet again. Mrs. Hudson had said he had been gone two months, perhaps longer; she hadn't been clear when he had moved out as she had not checked up on him for at least two weeks. She had been out visiting her sister in Cambridge, and walked upstairs to find the door unlocked and the kettle cold. Over the next few days, there had been no hide or hair of him. And yet the apartment lay undisturbed; Sherlock was under no illusions that John would have allowed himself to be overcome by the mere street variety, and yet that was precisely what the apartment suggested. It could not have to do with Sherlock himself - he had devoted the last two years of his life to destroying the rest of Moriarty's extensive network, leaving veritably next to none of London's major crime syndicates operative. No connections, no intentions threaded in personal malice. The apartment had not been ransacked, and with his eidetic memory he knew without doubt that nothing had been absent. Of course it was possible that it had something to do with John's military history - but then, Sherlock already knew that there was nothing of interest there.

The detective took lengthy strides down the street, his surroundings a blur interspersed by glaring no-walk signs that were promptly ignored. He had more important things to do than lower himself to dealing with the petty habits of London drivers. He took a few turns, and passed by the bank where it had all began two years ago. He had no real feelings attached to the event, of falling at least, but as John often reminded him, he wasn't everyone. He noted with flat impartiality that the blood hadn't come out entirely of the sidewalk, leaving a shadow-like hue to the pavement. He walked on. Twenty-three-hundred paces from the apartment, he turned to look over his shoulder as flare of light hit the corner of his eye. Strange - there were few glass placements high enough to reflect the sun on the east side of the street. A flutter of movement caught his eye, directing his attention to a fourth story window on a hotel. The bright red fabric swayed from recent movement. Most likely an extendable object, to catch the light which now inched away from the building's siding, and reflective - a telescope, most likely. The curly-haired man was tilting his head for further scrutiny of the object at hand when he was interrupted by the sound of an incoming text. His brother, from the sound of it. Mycroft had always had impeccable timing.

"Dearest brother-" Sherlock muttered without an ounce of sincerity, unlocking the screen rapidly with a thumb. "-how impeccably annoying you are." For all intensive purposes, he looked just like another Londoner on his phone, standing at the edge of the curb as he wavered between business and movement. There was nothing normal about the Holmes brothers, however. As if to substantiate this, Sherlock frowned at his phone in confusion, window casement temporarily forgotten. The text was short and succinct:

"Stop investigation. Tania will pick you up. Meet you at grave." Slowly, Sherlock looked up, and his gaze came to rest on the black car. "What are you up to now, Mycroft?" he wondered softly, then tucked his phone in a pocket and stepped off the curb.


End file.
